


Chrysalis

by thesnadger



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bad Ending, M/M, Monster Jonathan Sims, Moral Discomfort, Post-Apocalypse, but still gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:42:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23741752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesnadger/pseuds/thesnadger
Summary: What if Jon stopped resisting? What if he fully gave in to the dreadful power that has a hold on him? How much would Martin be willing to turn his back on in order to keep the one he loves?
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 69
Kudos: 401





	1. Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> Contains spoilers up to MAG 162 and some minor references that might be considered spoilers(?) to 163. Just one possible outcome of Jon's will-he-won't-he (become an eldritch abomination) arc that I wanted to explore.

Things like day and night didn’t really exist anymore, Martin knew that. But the quality of light from the sky -- slate-gray, cold and impenetrable -- made it feel a bit like early dawn, which seemed as good a time as any to set out.

He shifted the lightweight bag on his shoulders. It was kind of nice that they didn’t need to load up on food, he supposed. Made the packing easier. Jon stood nearby, staring up at the endless gray with a blank expression on his face. There was a second bag slung over his shoulder beside the one Martin had packed, holding the tapes and statements. He’d refused to leave them behind.

Martin took out the safehouse keys and paused, hand halfway to the door, as he realized what he was doing.

“You know, I was just about to lock up,” he said, turning to Jon with a wry smile. “Isn’t that ridiculous? What am I worried about, someone coming in to rob our creepy cabin that eats people? Steal the silverware that’s probably alive and evil?”

Jon turned from the sky and smiled fondly at him. “If anyone did break in, they’d likely just settle inside and never leave.”

“Yeah.” Martin sighed, looking back at the cabin. “Shame burning didn’t work. You were right about that one.”

“It’s not made of wood and stone anymore.” Jon said. “It’s a part of this world, now. It doesn’t need to worry about fire.”

“I know it’s just just one place out of countless others and all. . . still wish there was _something_ we could do. I mean, someone could stumble across it, couldn’t they?”

“I don’t know, Martin. I don’t know if anyone’s likely to be in a state to make it here.” Jon said. “But if someone did, they’d probably know not to trust anything that looks like safety.”

“Very cheerful.”

“Sorry. I did mean for that to be reassuring.” Jon mumbled. Something silver-bright flashed in his gaze for a moment. “At any rate, I - I don’t think you have to worry. It’s not _for_ anyone else.”

“It’s not . . . sorry, what?”

“It’s our nightmare.” Jon said quietly, looking at it as if seeing it for the first time. He walked to the door and placed a hand flat against it. “My fear of losing you turned into a cloying lie of protection. Your fear of watching me . . . .” his voice went quiet. “. . . Decay. In my despair, in that room. The love we have for each other no longer something in which either of us can take comfort.”

He lowered his hand and turned back to Martin conclusively. “It’s for us. It’s what the safehouse was for us in our darkest moments. I don’t think anyone else would even see it.”

“You’re talking like it was _made_ for us.” Martin said after a moment of silence.

“It was, in a sense. Shaped around us. Like mold growing over an old mask, taking the form of a human face.”

Jon turned away from the cabin and walked towards the path. On impulse Martin put a hand on his arm, stopping him.

“I’m scared too,” Martin said. “But we have a plan, and we have each other.”

Jon smiled sadly at him, needing only the barest prompting to nestle himself into Martin’s arms. He held him for a while, breathing deeply.

“I’m not afraid of anything out there.” Jon said softly. “Not directly. I’m just . . . scared I’ll lose you to it.”

“You won’t.” Martin said, and it felt like the truth. “I know, I know, there’s untold dangers and horrors the likes of which I can’t imagine, etcetera. But you’ll be there when I have to sleep, and I’ll be with you the rest of the time. And if something separates us, then we’ll just have to fight until we get back to one another.”

Jon nodded, then glanced back at the unchanged sky. “And. . .if I. . .lose myself?”

Martin was quiet for a while, unsure how to answer that. Then he gave Jon’s hand a squeeze, and smiled.

“If you do, I’ll come and find you. Bring you back,” he said. “Just like you did when I was lost.”

And oh, the smile on Jon’s face when he said that. It gave off a warmth that spread and spread until it covered Martin like a ray of real sunlight. If he could still make Jon smile like that, he could do anything.

“You know what I really want to see?” Martin asked.

“. . .What?”

“The look on Elias’s face when we kick down his door.”

Jon laughed, a sharp, loud noise of surprise and genuine mirth, and grinned. “Oh yes. I’m looking forward to that one as well.”

Martin kissed Jon’s hand and lowered it to his side, fingers twining with his. The two of them turned with purpose toward a path that once led to a village, which once had people, in what once was the world.

* * *

The journey would be the journey, according to Jon. Martin could accept that . . . mostly. He at least accepted that walking was the only way to get there. Even if he had been planning to dig his heels in on that, he’d have changed his mind after that road with all the abandoned cars. Too many of them had teeth.

It was just . . . the Beholding had never given Jon useful information before. No warnings about people who were coming after him, or knowledge about what happened to Sasha. Certainly not anything about what Elias was really up to. But it wouldn’t have given him _that,_ would it? No. It would have hid that information, just like it hid the way to quit the Institute. So what did that say about the fact it was now telling him how to reach the tower? Either it wanted them there or . . . maybe it wanted them to go through everything in between. Throw themselves at all this horror, for its own pleasures and purposes.

Martin didn’t suggest turning around, though. A chance to confront Elias and find a way back was worth the risk of feeding the Eye, and besides, where else would they go? Regardless of the sinister force behind it, Jon’s insight continued to guide them across one nightmare after another.

It was while they were were traveling one of the empty spaces between when Jon stopped in his tracks, inhaling sharply. Martin stopped a pace later.

“What is it?”

Jon hesitated, swallowed and shook his head. “It’s. I’m all right.”

“ _Jon_.”

“It’s just . . . a lot. Loud.” Jon muttered. “It will get worse the closer we go to what once was London . . . there were fewer people in the countryside.”

“Do you need a minute?” Martin frowned, concern edging into his voice.

“Yes. No.” Jon shook his head and resumed walking. “I think it’s better to keep moving. Standing in place just makes the moment longer, you know?”

“Just pace yourself, all right?” Martin followed.

Jon shrugged at him. “It’s not really something I can stop.”

They continued on, through forests of mirrors that they knew better than to let themselves reflect in. Through storms that went from rain to ice to shards of glass. Through tunnels they found themselves in after open countryside with no transition, like travel in a dream. They held hands and navigated the darkness by touch and by each others voices, and walked on.

* * *

Their bodies didn’t tire in the same way, but rest was still needed if only as respite from everything else. They tried to pick spots that were quiet and gave them room to run. At one point they settled in an empty place beside a road they’d been walking down. When Martin tried letting go of Jon’s hand to remove his jacket, Jon’s grip on him tightened.

“Don’t let go of me. Please,” he muttered. “Not while we’re stopped here.”

Martin paused. “Is switching hands okay?”

Jon nodded. Martin took the strap off his right shoulder, then took Jon’s right hand before shrugging off the left strap, slipping the bag off without breaking contact. He moved Jon’s hand to his knee while he removed his coat and folded it into the bag. As long as there was some physical connection, Jon seemed all right with it.

“What’s different about here?” Martin asked as he did this.

Jon frowned. “Don’t look directly at it, but. . . to your left. Have you noticed?”

Martin continued looking straight ahead, but let a little attention drift to his periphery. A few yards away from them there was something . . . off. He couldn’t tell if it was the color of the sky, or something about the ground, or the few bits of plant life that grew there, but something was _wrong_ in an undefinable way. If there was one thing he could identify it was that the crooked, leafless tree near the horizon was the same one he’d been seeing in the corner of his eye for hours, and their distance from it hadn’t changed. The landscape was _following_ them.

“I’ve noticed . . . something,” he said. “Didn’t really make note of it, I guess. Because there’s _always_ something?”

“The Unknowing is strong there.” Jon said. “We may have to go through it eventually, but for now it’s keeping its distance. Oh. Try not to _think_ directly at it either.”

“What does ‘think directly’ m--oh, _dammit._ ” Martin winced as a wave of disorientation his his mind, momentarily blurring his thoughts and making his pulse race. “Jon. . .you know that when you tell someone not to think about something--”

“They immediately think about it.” Jon grimaced. “I’m sorry, I should’ve thought--”

“It’s all right, it’s all right. . .I’m fine, really.”

 _Don’t think about pink elephants._ Martin told himself, and images of pink elephants tumbled into his mind. He focused on not thinking about that for a while, only half-considering the landscape to the left as he did so.

“So . . . should we be staying here?” he asked. “Is it -- well, I won’t ask if it’s dangerous, but do you think it’s _more_ dangerous than everything else is? Or about the same?’

“The latter, most likely.” Jon said. “I just don’t want to lose sight of you. It’s still something of a . . . blind spot for me. I don’t want to risk not being able to find you if anything separates us.”

Martin wondered if Jon was being overprotective in thinking that an instant without constant physical contact could result in something swooping in to pull him away, or if Martin was being complacent in thinking that _wouldn’t_ happen. He supposed it didn’t matter. Either way, he didn’t mind.

“Are you all right here?” Martin frowned. “I mean, if the Unknowing is, ah, bad for you . . . .”

“It’s sort of a relief, actually.” Jon’s brow knit. “I think it’s having some dampening effect on the Watcher. It makes everything softer. Quieter.”

“Really . . . .” Martin resisted the impulse to look or think closer at what they were talking about. They weren’t talking about anything. Not anything other than pink elephants, which he was still steadily avoiding thoughts of. “Should we try skirting a little closer to it? I mean, if it’s not more dangerous than any other place . . . maybe being near it would actually be good?”

A breeze blew in from Martin’s left, carrying noise on the wind. He heard the faint groan of a calliope and two whispering voices. They didn’t sound entirely like Tim and Sasha. But they also didn’t sound _unlike_ them enough. He could tell from the expression on Jon’s face that he was hearing them too.

“Let’s not.” Jon said.

Martin nodded. “Yeah. Let’s not.”

* * *

There were close calls. They’d been prepared for danger, but preparation only gives you so much. When one fell the other could grab them and dig in their heels, they could run from waves of screaming flesh or burn back things that slithered from behind walls. But there was always more, and the dangers were never simple. And every time something got too near or gripped too hard for Martin to pull away, Jon was quick to put himself in front of it. He’d pin it with an unnatural gaze, eyes wide, teeth grinding in concentration and pain until something intangible was ripped away and they could resume running.

Martin should have been more afraid for himself. He knew he was vulnerable in a way Jon wasn’t. When the grass beneath their feet twisted into patterns so mesmerizing that Martin didn’t notice it was winding around him, Jon kept him walking. When something made Martin forget the world had ended, forget that they weren’t back in London during a time when everything seemed gentler, Jon shouted the truth at him until Martin believed it. Jon saw which parts of the ground were real and which ones shouldn’t be stepped on. Even the things that jumped out of the shadows with teeth and claws seemed to have more interest in Martin.

But he knew Jon was vulnerable too, in a different way. He was always ready to use his power to protect Martin, but it wasn’t really _his_ power, was it? He directed and channeled it, sure. But it was the Watcher that was reaching through him, and Martin didn’t forget that.

One frightened morsel of humanity probably didn’t mean much to the Eye in a world that was nothing but food. Though Martin wasn’t safe from it, he doubted it had any special interest in him. But it had intent where Jon was concerned. It _wanted_ something from him. Even after everything it had taken from the man Martin loved, the Beholding still demanded more. Each time Jon drew on it, Martin swore he took a little bit longer to look back at him. He was certain the hollows in Jon’s face had been getting darker, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen him blink.

So he did what he could. He kept the axe close and used it as best as he was able. He stayed alert. When something with long, ropey limbs and a face like an inside-out deer emerged from the hillside and wrapped itself around him, he tried not to panic. And when Jon jumped in and stilled it with a look Martin wriggled out of its tendrils, grabbed Jon around the waist, and ducked through a crevice in the rock wall.

With a loud scraping noise, the stone slid closed behind them - trapping the monster outside but plunging them into darkness. Martin groaned internally. Leaping from one danger into the teeth of another was starting to get so commonplace as to be tedious. He could feel Jon’s hands gripping his arm tight enough that he was sure there’d be bruises later, though he stayed completely silent.

Martin yanked the torch out of his backpack pocket and clicked it on, mentally crossing his fingers. The batteries were just lumps of matter - the torch worked when it wanted to, didn’t when it didn’t. But today it was cooperating, and its beam lit up the cavern around them. It was small, but not quite ‘pressing down from all sides’ small, which was good. It seemed for the moment that they were alone, which was also good. It also seemed that there was no way in or out, which was not as good. Martin tried to ignore the tight feeling in his chest, as if the air wasn’t quite enough to fill it.

“Okay. Well. I don’t think it can get in here. . . .” Martin said, flicking the light around the chamber. “Maybe we--”

The beam passed across Jon’s face. His eyes reflected it like a cat’s, which barely even registered as ‘weird’ anymore. But for a moment in the dark of the cave, there were more than two lights looking back. At least a dozen eyes glinted from the shadows around Jon, and Martin’s arm jumped in surprise. When the light returned it was just Jon’s own eyes watching him, blinking and squinting in the flashlight’s beam.

“S-sorry.” Martin angled the torch back towards the cave wall.

“Mmmhmm.” Jon rubbed his eyes. “Are you all right?”

“I’m all right. Are you?”

“Yes. . .I think so.” Jon looked around the chamber. “I don’t see anything else in here. . .”

“You mean see, or _see?_ ” Martin asked, trying to make it sound like a joke.

“Either.”

“Hmm.” Martin moved the light around more methodically, in case he’d missed an exit or a tunnel the first time. Nothing. “Doesn’t look like there’s any way out. At least I’m not claustrophobic.”

The second he said that, he could feel the chamber shrink a little around him.

“Had to say it, didn’t you?” Jon smiled ruefully.

Martin winced. “I should just stop talking.”

“I wouldn’t like that.” Jon said.

“Are _you_ okay?” Martin frowned. “I mean. . .after the coffin. I wouldn’t be surprised if this was getting to you. . . .”

“There isn’t a fear I’m not marked by in some way.” Jon’s voice was grim. “That was the whole point. But I’m not panicking yet.”

Martin nodded and sat against the chamber wall. He could feel exhaustion sinking in. That last burst of adrenaline burned through his reserves, which had been low for a while.

“I think . . . I might need to sleep again soon,” he said.

“Well. At the risk of provoking another change . . . there doesn’t seem to be any _immediate_ danger here.” Jon said.

They both paused and braced themselves, waiting for a reaction. None came, and Jon continued.

“We could rest a while, find our way out when you wake,” he finished, sitting down beside him.

“As long as you’ll be okay here.” Martin said.

“I’ll be all right. Besides, we _are_ here now regardless of how we feel about it.” He leaned against the wall beside Martin. “Thank you for pulling me away. I think that I was . . . . Well, anyway, thank you.”

“Of course.” Martin put a hand on his. “. . . Thank you for protecting me.”

“I always will.” Jon whispered, a intensity in his voice that thundered against the cave walls.

“Not unless you have to, all right?” Martin swallowed. “I don’t know if it’s smart to . . . you know. Use its ‘gifts’ too much.”

“I’m not going to let something take you if I have the power to stop it--” Jon began.

“I’m not asking you to.” Martin said. “Just . . . be careful? I can get away on my own sometimes too, you know,” he added the last in a teasing tone. As if this was all about Jon not giving him enough credit.

“Right . . . of course.” Jon spoke reluctantly, as if someone was reminding him of the health risks posed by cigarettes. Not disagreeing, but at the same time. . . _well_. “Of course you can. I’ll be careful.”

Martin pulled Jon a little closer and kissed him. It was a reminder, and it was gratitude, and it was also just a kiss. Then he passed the torch to Jon. They both tensed for a moment when it clicked off, but there was no awful sound of rock walls suddenly shifting. Martin’s eyes adjusted to the dark, which meant this was the sort of dark that eyes could adjust to, and as far as he could tell the chamber had remained the same size. They placed their bags around them and used coats as padding against the hard stone.

Jon settled Martin’s head in his lap and kissed his forehead, obviously trying to hide the dread. Martin felt it too. He told himself that the next thing he’d remember would be waking with only the ghost of terror he couldn’t recall gnawing at him. But deep down he knew that wasn’t how it worked. He’d likely forget his dreams, but he’d still have to endure them first.

Sleep was going to come whether he was ready or not, and there was no point in fighting it. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the soothing feeling of Jon’s fingers in his hair, until he couldn’t feel them anymore.

* * *

He woke gasping, pushing himself off the cave floor. His last cry still echoed in the cave around him, and his breathing was ragged. Martin felt around himself. . . even in his state of disorientation he could tell something was very, very wrong. Then it hit him - Jon wasn’t there. He wasn’t sitting beside him, wasn’t stroking his hair or squeezing his hand or wrapped around him and murmuring soothing words in his ear. For the first time since the world had ended, Jon wasn’t holding him when he woke.

“Jon!?” he called in alarm, eyes still adjusting to the dark.

Jon didn’t call back, but Martin could hear _something_ coming from the other side of the cave. He felt around until his hand closed over the torch and he clicked it on. It lit up a silhouette on the other side of the chamber, sat facing away. It looked like Jon from behind, but Martin was immediately wary. He couldn’t see the figure’s face. Why hadn’t he replied when Martin called out? Why wasn’t he turning now?

Martin shone the light around the rest of the cave and found it empty, so he got to his feet and slowly approached. As he got closer, he heard what definitely _sounded_ like Jon’s voice coming from the figure, whispering something indistinct.

“Jon?” Martin asked quietly. The figure didn’t respond. Hesitatingly, Martin moved to its side so he could see its face.

The figure didn’t spin violently around to reveal black pits for eyes and a maw full of fangs, nor did it fall over revealing a dessicated corpse, or dissolve into insects, or any of the other countless things that ran through Martin’s mind as he got closer. Its face was just Jon’s face. It _was_ Jon. He was staring at the cave wall, apparently entranced.

He didn’t seem to see Martin. Whatever he was watching, Martin suspected it was well past the actual boundaries of the cave. His face was fixed in an expression somewhere between fear and wonder, and there were tears in his eyes. But as Martin watched, a smile slowly spread across his face and his mouth formed the shape of the word ‘beautiful.’

“ _Jon_. . . .”

Martin might have gripped his shoulder a little harder than he needed to, shaken it a little more than necessary, but it snapped Jon back to reality. The smile fell away completely and he glanced around in startled confusion.

“Mh. . .” Jon began to mouth his name, then trailed off. Horror seemed to be settling on him.

“. . . What did you see?” Martin whispered.

Jon stared for a moment, then closed his eyes tightly and shook his head. “Terrible things.”

A thousand questions, a thousand more concerns were running through Martin’s mind. But like an idiot, all he thought to say was, “you weren’t there.”

“Wh--wha--”

“When I woke up.” Martin explained. “You weren’t . . . you were just staring . . . .”

“Oh. . . _oh,_ ” Jon reached for him, speaking emphatically. “I’m so sorry, Martin.”

“No, it’s - - it’s all right, that isn’t what I mean, I just - -”

How could he explain it? Yes, okay, he was a little needy when he woke, and yes Jon not being there had been . . . upsetting. But he wasn’t frightened right now because of how much it meant to him that Jon was there when he woke up. It was how much he knew being there when he woke meant to _Jon._ It was the fact that Jon had never left his side while he slept. Except tonight he had. Something had moved him away and kept him from hearing his voice. And that scared Martin more even than waking alone in the dark had.

Regardless, Jon was pulling him into an embrace he didn’t feel like resisting. So he reached out his arms and held back, tight as he could without crushing him. He heard Jon mutter apologies, soothing things and reassurances. But the fear didn’t leave this time.

They huddled together for a while, neither eager to break the hold. Eventually Martin shifted them into a more comfortable position, leaning himself against the cave wall and Jon against him.

“. . . I’m worried about you.” Martin said, after a while of silence.

Jon didn’t seem to have any reassurances in him for that. He just squeezed Martin’s hand very, very hard. Martin reached up and bushed his fingers over Jon’s temples, tenderly. Jon closed his eyes.

Even in the barely-there light of the cave, he could see the deep lines under Jon’s eyes. Between that and the gray that had taken over his hair, he was beginning to resemble the old man he always used to act like. Martin fondly ran his thumb over the little crow-foot wrinkles extending from the corners of Jon’s eyes. Then he stopped suddenly, taking a closer look.

They weren’t wrinkles. They were cracks.


	2. Waking

Everything about the place screamed “leave.” Scorched scrap walls, doors ripped off their hinges, murals smeared with blood and ash. But things were bad in all directions, and Jon insisted this was the path they had to take.

Martin avoided taking in details as they walked, scarf over his face to keep from breathing in ash, which saturated the air. He didn’t speculate on what terrible fate had befallen this place, but it did seem strange that a settlement like this existed at all. It looked like it had been built after the world had changed, and it had time to build itself well. The shacks weren’t slapped together, they’d been reinforced and decorated. Woven blankets, curtains of beads and other possessions lay shredded in the empty doorways. There were the beginnings of farms and communal areas broken among the ruins. Had that much time really passed? Maybe time was just that malleable now. Or maybe this place had come into being already built up, already ruined.

Thinking about that kept Martin from thinking too hard about the bodies lying huddled on the ground. It wasn’t just sorrow or horror at the story those charred husks told that kept Martin from letting his gaze settle on them. They were the first people he’d seen that looked truly, truly _dead._

Fates worse than death were one thing. He’d seen plenty of those, and yes, they were terrifying. But Jon had guided him back from the Lonely, and Martin had given him voices to follow out of the Buried. As long as they were both alive, there was a chance. Awful as being trapped in a three by three foot box or shrouded in an aching, numbing mist or wracked with fevers for eternity might be, they could hope to find their way out of it. Death was different. Martin was fairly sure that was still true.

He tried not to think about it. Kept walking.

Unfortunately, and in retrospect predictably, the settlement was a maze. The farther in they went, the more it began to grow and stretch out around them. Martin quietly cursed when he realized what was happening. He should have been used to the nightmare logic that was now natural law, but it seemed there was nothing to do now but press on.

At one point Martin realized that Jon wasn’t next to him. There was a moment of panic before he turned to find that he’d only stopped a few paces back. He was staring at a ruined fence, face slack. Martin exhaled and walked back to him.

“Jon, come on,” he tugged at his arm. “We can’t stay here.”

It took a moment for Jon to register his touch. He blinked at him, eyes slightly glazed, breathing heavily. His eyes were red, but Martin didn’t see any tears.

“Here. . . .”

Martin put an arm around Jon and gently turned him until his face was completely hidden in Martin’s jumper.

“Don’t look at it. Just hold onto me and keep moving.”

He didn’t respond, but Martin felt his arms reach around him and grip firmly. They began walking again, slower now so that Jon didn’t stumble. Martin kept his hand on the back of Jon’s head and they got some distance that way, Jon’s arms occasionally tightening a notch more, then relaxing, then tightening again. Martin didn’t want to guess what he was seeing.

Very suddenly, that grip tightened enough to squeeze the breath from Martin, and Jon’s face pulled free from his jumper with a gasp.

“. . .They’re still here,” he whispered, eyes wide.

Martin didn’t ask ‘who’ because it didn’t matter, the fear in Jon’s voice told him everything he needed to know. He felt the wind pick up, ash swirling in the air around them. In the distance, Martin was sure that he saw figures gathering.

“Shit.” Martin squinted at the distant forms. Some were close enough for him to make out details, twisted masses of scorched skin and scar tissue. Not human in shape, but made of human shapes - limbs and backs and screaming faces.

“This. . . .” his thoughts from earlier bubbled up with the rising tide of fear. “This one wants to kill us. Doesn’t it?”

“It won’t kill us.” Jon said with certainty.

“That’s something, at least,” he swallowed.

“It’s Desolation,” Jon continued, voice small. “It’ll kill one of us, leave the other alive to mourn. Like it did with them,” he pointed an unsteady hand to one of the figures.

Martin’s grip tightened. “Okay. Running? Running sound good? Can you, uh, _See_ a way out of here?”

“I’m trying, but. . . ” Jon grit his teeth, pressing the heel of one hand against his forehead. “It’s all too much. The -- the loss, the anguish. I - - I can’t see anything past it, I- - ” his hand began to shake.

“Okay.” Martin looked around. Right or left, fifty fifty chance, right? Or it would be in world where the cardinal directions stayed where they were. “Hold my hand, and just - - just tell me if you see an exit.”

Jon nodded weakly, and they ran. But it was hard. The rows between the ruins were narrow, and ash obscured Martin’s vision. Worst of all, Jon couldn’t seem to keep his legs under him. Usually he was the faster of the two, but now he kept turning back, slowing and stumbling until Martin was almost dragging him along. Finally Martin gave up, grabbed him around the waist and threw him over his shoulder.

The figures were drawing closer, gathering together to form one mass - a towering thing with a choir of screaming mouths. How could something that big _move_ so fast? It was catching up, and with Jon’s weight Martin was tiring already. Then one foot landed in a way that it shouldn’t have, his legs turned under him and they both went down, rolling away from each other on the soot choked ground. Martin immediately pushed himself up again. No time to stop, no room to catch his breath. Jon was a few feet away, curled around himself and shaking violently. His eyes were completely glazed over.

When Martin reached to help him up, Jon gripped his hand and looked at him pleadingly.

“Run,” he whispered. “Just run.”

 _Not a chance,_ Martin thought, but then the ground shook and the thing drew in on them. He had only a split second - it was here and it was close too close and there wasn’t time. But the things in this world were always more interested in him, weren’t they? If he _did_ run, maybe he could lead it away. By himself he might be fast enough to lose it and come back around.

There was no time to weigh the options. He chose what seemed like a chance for escape over holding Jon and waiting for death. Martin ran.

There was a moment of relief when he looked back and saw there was some distance between him and it. Then confusion when he realized it wasn’t running after him at all. It was still in place, twisting and screaming, but not coming closer to him or Jon. Behind it, Jon was standing up.

Jon looked at the creature and his gaze was as eerie and intense as ever. But something was different this time. Martin found himself thinking _he’s crying._ And then, _no. . .those aren’t tears._

With a terrible sound, Jon’s body split with cracks. They curled around scar tissue, ripped through the lines of his face and opened him. But what came out from inside him wasn’t blood and flesh and bone. It was dark and alive with movement, like television static. And inside that shifting haze, countless eyes peered back.

The cracks spread outwards from Jon. They split the sky, opened tears in reality. And where the sky was rent, Martin saw the merciless gaze of the Ceaseless Watcher. It was a hungering brightness at the center of everything. It was as impersonal as a surveillance state and as intimate as a face breathing into yours while you slept. Horrible to see but impossible to turn away from. And the fullness of its stare was focused on that mound of flesh and sorrow and pain.

The things’ scream gave Martin the jolt he needed to tear himself away. He covered his face with his arms and huddled until the noise was abruptly cut off. In the silence that followed, Martin waited a good, long moment, then he lifted his head and opened his eyes.

The creature was. . .empty. That was the only word for it. It had fallen apart on the ground, lumps of flesh twitching and hissing, but with nothing at all inside them. Not dead. Not physically hollowed, but empty. Jon stood in the middle of it all. The cracks in the sky had closed, thankfully, but they still twisted across Jon’s back, warping his form.

“. . . Jon?” Martin said uncertainly.

Jon’s head snapped in his direction, and there was nothing in his eyes that Martin recognized. Only a piercing and terrible hunger.

Martin stumbled backwards as Jon made a beeline for him. Something caught his foot and he went down hard, landing sprawled on the ground. When he looked up Jon stood over him, and Martin was a frog open on a dissection table. He was an insect pinned under a child’s thumb. He was a secret caught in a blinding light, and every instinct in his brain was screaming at him to hide, but there was no place for him to go.

 _He was afraid of losing himself._ Martin thought. _He was afraid of losing himself, and I kept saying we had to go and now he’s gone he’s gone he’s gone and there’s nothing - -_

The Archivist reached down, placing a hand on each side of Martin’s face and holding his head still. Martin should have been running, or screaming for him to stop, or socking him in the face. But all he could do was stare numbly back and wait for whatever would come.

“I’m sorry. . .” Martin said, anguish in his voice. “I’m so, so, sorry. . . .”

The figure in front of him lowered its forehead, pressing it against Martin’s. And suddenly, Martin Knew that Jon loved him.

It was immutable and certain as gravity had once seemed. He didn’t simply trust that Jon loved him, didn’t just understand it to be true because of the way he behaved and the things he said. Martin Knew it to his core. Jon loved him, he loved him so, _so_ much. He had loved him for a long time now, and in that moment Jon loved him no less than he ever had.

The full weight of that love settled in him, the warmth and the brightness of it filled his mind and for a moment it overwhelmed everything else. He forgot the settlement, forgot the cracks in the sky. There was nothing but him and this one, perfect truth. He would never forget it, never deny it, never be able to doubt it. There was only one other thing Martin had ever Known so deeply, and he had spent most of his days since then trying not to think much about it.

Then the moment passed. The feeling faded from an all-consuming understanding to a gentle, quiet certainty. When he came back to himself his face was streaked with tears. Jon had taken a step back, giving him room to breathe, and now stood silently in front of him.

“Jon . . . ?” Martin asked, softly, hopefully. “Is it still you?”

Jon opened his mouth and the sound of crackling static came out. He reached for Martin, who drew back without thinking. Jon paused and lowered his hand. He patted himself on the left side of his coat, just over the pocket. Martin reached into his own pocket, feeling the shape of the object inside. When he realized what it was, he laughed. He couldn’t help it. The tape recorder clicked on as soon as he removed it.

“I think so.” Jon’s voice came out of the recorder, slightly distorted by the hiss of playback. “Though . . . I suppose I don’t know how one tells that sort of thing?”

“Okaaay. . .” Martin exhaled, looking from the recorder in his lap back to Jon. “Okay. This is new. Sort of weird, but could be worse?”

Jon took a careful step closer, testing to see if Martin would draw back again. He didn’t, and Jon sat on the ground beside him. The cracks in his body were slowly closing, the blur of static and Watching getting smaller between them. Martin set down the recorder, which continued to play Jon’s voice.

“Are you all right?” Martin asked. “You were looking pretty, uh . . . .”

“. . . Terrifying?” Jon tilted his head in Martin’s direction.

“ _Well_ . . . .” Martin didn’t want to use that word, but all the other words he could think of were just synonyms for it.

“Monstrous?” Jon supplied.

“As long as it’s still you, I don’t care.” Martin said emphatically.

“It is.” Jon said, with a little more confidence. “I’m - - I’m still me. Just.” He held up an arm and watched as the lines running through it slowly sealed themselves. “. . . With some some changes.”

The cracks now resembled long, twisting scars more than anything else, though in his periphery Martin swore he kept seeing things open and blink on Jon’s body. His gaze was still piercing, but with the panic passed Martin could also see there was affection and recognition in those uncanny eyes.

 _Okay,_ he thought to himself. _Take a breath. Check in. It’s not as bad as you thought but this is obviously a . . . new challenge. See how he’s handling it._

“What exactly happened back there?” he asked.

Jon took a deep breath, and a sigh came from the recorder.

“It was overwhelming. It had been bad before, but . . . all those people.” He turned to stare at the sky. “They thought they had a safe haven. They built up walls and invented wards and believed they’d found tricks to keep the nightmares out. But it was all just so they’d have more to lose. So they’d build and love and cherish things that could be torn away from them. Just fattening them up.”

Jon moved his head and gestured while he talked, pantomiming his own speech. It was somewhere between unsettling and comical at first, but soon it began to feel natural and Martin noticed it less and less.

“An entire town,” Jon shook his head. “Silently screaming their stories of terror and agony and despair at me. I was wrapped in it all, and I couldn’t see out.”

“I’m sorry . . . ” Martin squeezed Jon’s hand, mindful of the wide, curling scar that covered his palm. “I can’t even imagine what that’s like.”

“But it’s all right. I’m all right now,” Jon turned back. “Better than all right. It doesn’t hurt anymore, Martin.”

In the back of Martin’s mind, a tiny noise began to sound. Like a distant, muffled alarm. “I’m . . . not sure what you mean? What doesn’t hurt anymore?”

“Any of it.” Jon smiled. “The fear and anguish, the things the Watcher feeds me, none of it hurts at all. Something happened back there . . . I was trapped in the heart of their pain. There was nothing outside of it - I didn’t remember you were there, or who I was, or why we were here. There was only the collective suffering of a thousand terrified souls, and it hurt more than anything I have ever known. And in the depths of it all, I realized that it didn’t _have_ to hurt.”

There was a strange giddiness rising in Jon’s voice, and the alarm in Martin’s head rang louder.

“I could _choose_ to stop letting it hurt me. I could finally stop tormenting myself, open my mind and drink everything in. And I _did._ And it was _wonderful,_ ” Jon stared out into the distant sky. “And all I wanted was more.”

“So. . . .” The alarm bell was reaching a crescendo now, and Martin struggled to keep his tone even. “What happened back there. . . what you did to it . . . .”

“I was greedy.” Jon smiled behind his hand, his tone sheepish but without regret. “I needed every drop.”

“Jesus, Jon.” Martin muttered.

“. . . And then I heard you!” Jon continued, unmindful of Martin’s tone. “And I remembered. And I realized that it was dead, and you were safe, and we were still together.”

Jon took Martin by the shoulders, gripping him with an manic energy that was startling, yes, frightening even, but still _familiar_ , still so much like _Jon_ , too much like him to be anything else.

“It was going to separate us, but I stopped it. It didn’t stand a chance against me. I don’t know if _anything_ can anymore. I’ve gained so much . . .” he continued, eyes bright and alive. “I can feel my mind expanding to fill every corner of this dreadful world. I am burning, and drowning, and weeping, and writhing, and falling and dying and it is--” he closed his eyes, head tilted back in an expression of pleasure. “--Glorious.”

Martin looked at him grimly. “This is what you were afraid would happen. Isn’t it?”

“Not quite.” Jon smiled. “I was afraid of giving in, yes. I was afraid, and it feels _ridiculous_ to say this now, but I was afraid there’d be a time when the things that I see would only ever feel right and leave me only with satisfaction. But what scared me the most was the thought that, if that happened, it would mean I could no longer love you. That you would just be something for me to watch, to know, and ultimately to discard,” he sighed, a sound of great relief. “But that didn’t happen. You Know that now, don’t you?”

Martin nodded, as there was no point denying it. In the corner of his mind, the image of the thing he had seen beyond the sky still lingered, and Martin wondered if it was capable of laughter. If it was laughing at them right now.

“This was. . . .” Martin pulled away from Jon, curling his knees up to his chest. “This was what _it_ wanted too, wasn’t it? Why it let you know about the tower. It wanted us to keep throwing ourselves at the nightmares until one of them finally made you break,” he laughed once, a mirthless, choking noise. “I was an idiot to think that there’d be a reset button. A way to _fix_ everything if we just went back. . . .”

“Martin . . . that’s not true at all.” Jon put a hand on his shoulder. “A way back does exist. I know what it is now. You were right all along. _I_ was wrong.”

“Wh- wait . . . really?” Martin blinked.

Jon nodded. “The Ritual that brought about this world is still ongoing. It will go on for all eternity, never stopping, never, ever finished. But if it _were_ to finish, if it were stopped or interrupted. . . .” He trailed off expectantly, leaving Martin room to fill in the blanks.

“Would everything really go back?” Martin looked around at the ruins - the charred wood, the whirlwinds of ash, the lumps of flesh that were first people and then things and then nothing. “Is that even possible now?”

“The world might have a few scars. One or two spots that don’t come back _all_ the way. A few unfortunate souls who retain memories, plenty of bad dreams. I can’t say what state humanity would be in if it happened after eons had passed.” Jon tapped his knee thoughtfully. “But if it were done now, or soon? I think there’d barely be any damage at all.”

Guarding his heart was futile, hope pushed its stubborn way in whether Martin wished for it or not. They could go back to a world that yes, was often frightening and often cruel but was also gentle and kind and infinite things that this world wasn’t. All those people trapped in endless nightmares could just go back to their lives, they wouldn’t even know what had happened. It was too great a hope to keep down.

And if the old world came back . . . Martin didn’t know what that would mean for Jon now, truly. But if all of this could be undone, there was a chance for anything, wasn’t there?

“. . . There’s a catch.” Martin said. It wasn’t a question.

“Obviously.” Jon smiled sardonically. “The way back is very simple. Not easy, but simple. I suppose that’s the way of these things. Do you want me to show you?”

“I mean. . . yes.” Martin could faintly hear the alarm starting up again, but it didn’t change his mind. Whatever the catch was, they’d face it together. “I do.”

Jon looked at him for a moment, smiling sadly, then shook his head.

“No,” he brought his hand to Martin’s temple, “you really don’t.”

As soon as the hand touched him, Martin had his answer. It wasn’t a bone-deep Knowing like before, it was just information. No different than if he’d read it somewhere, save that it was given to him all in an instant.

Gertrude had said it herself. Jon _was_ the ritual. He’d become it the moment he took on the role of Archivist, and now he had reached his apotheosis. While he continued, the ritual would continue as well. The only way to end it was to end him. No magic circles or ancient artifacts or complicated chants were necessary, just the sort of implements one would expect for such a task. The only truly difficult part was that being the linchpin of the apocalypse had made Jon very resilient to damage. Not invulnerable, just resilient. Killing him would take patience and determination. First the eyes, then the voice box. Then fire. . . .

There were other steps but Martin was trying very hard not to think about them. He curled up on the ground, arms wrapped around himself, shaking his head. Numbly, he felt Jon gather him up. His top half was tugged into Jon’s lap, and his head gently settled against his chest.

“I’m sorry, Martin.” Jon whispered.

“That’s not _fair._ ” Martin groaned, tears in his eyes.

“I fear fairness rarely has anything to do with these matters.” Jon sighed, nestling Martin closer and stroking the back of his head. ”. . . It’s going to be all right.”

But that calm, resigned tone only filled Martin with _anger_ , anger he didn’t want. Of course _Jon_ was all right with this. Jon had been wanting to punish himself ever since he read that statement, and now he had the perfect justification for it. What was one person, after all, against the suffering of billions? You couldn’t argue with the math of it, no one could.

But when that one person is the world to _you,_ what then? How do you save a world that takes that person away? Jon couldn’t tell him it would be all right, because he wouldn’t have to _lose_ anyone. He wouldn’t have to go on afterwards, alone.

“It isn’t, though.” Martin said through gritted teeth.

“It is. I promise.” Jon said, tone still soothing.

“It’s really, _really_ , not, Jon.”

“But it _is_.” Jon bent down and kissed the top of Martin’s head. “Because I won’t let you do it.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in, and even then Martin wasn’t sure he heard right. “. . . What . . . do you mean?”

“I won’t let you kill me to save the world,” he explained. “Even if you believe you have to. If you think that you have no choice but to put the fate of world first, I still won’t let you do it.”

Jon smiled affectionately as he spoke. “And you can’t sneak up on me, not anymore. There’s no plan you can concoct no matter how brave or brilliant that I won’t see coming. You can’t just overpower me, either, I’d stop you if I had to. Not the way Jonah did--” he added quickly. “I’d be gentler than that. But I _would_ stop you.”

Martin blinked, disbelieving, as Jon continued to stroke his head, voice soft and serious.

“You won’t ever have to make that choice,” he finished. “Between me and the world. Because I’ve made that choice already, and there’s nothing you can do.”

The whole picture was beginning to fill itself in for Martin. He realized what Jon was trying to do and he pulled back, breaking contact.

“So it’s not my fault,” Martin said, voice grim. “If the worlds stays the way it is. Because I can’t stop you.”

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

“That’s not how it works.” Martin said. “That’s not how . . . responsibility works.”

“Why not? You deserve this.” Jon insisted. “ _We_ deserve this, Martin.”

“I’m not sure we do, though?” Martin ran a hand through his hair, “and besides, I mean . . . _this?_ ” He gestured vaguely to the scene around them. The ruined flesh and burned homes and devastation that may as well have served as a map for everything else.

“No, you’ll see--” Jon leaned forward. “Everything is going to be different now. It isn’t just the Beholding. I am the single point of terrible knowledge around which this world turns. I can shield you from everything in it now. Even the fear. Even the _dreams_. You won’t _ever_ have to suffer through those again, I promise!”

Jon clasped Martin’s hands, lit up with excitement.

“No more nightmares. No more guilt. No more playing those tapes over and over just to make myself suffer. We can go _any_ where! This world is ours to explore and take of for all eternity. The things we’ll _see,_ Martin,” his gaze was distant, rapturous. “Such hideous wonders. . . .”

He must have noticed Martin’s expression, because his own face sobered and he added, “but . . . you won’t have to see them. Not if you don’t want to. I can protect you from that too.”

“You’ll hurt people.” Martin said flatly.

“I was already hurting people.” Jon said. “Everything the Watcher fed me magnified the suffering of its victims a hundredfold. It’s no different now.”

“You didn’t have a choice then.”

“I don’t have a choice _now._ ” Jon said, gesturing towards the sky. “It’s going to continue, the endless stream of fear and anguish. I couldn’t stop it if I wanted to.”

“But you _used_ to want to.” Martin insisted. “And that _means_ something. It means something that you didn’t want this.”

“Would you rather I go back to being miserable?” There was reproach in Jon’s voice. “You said yourself that it hurt you to see me wallowing. And it _did!_ I _was_ hurting you. And I was hurting myself, too.” He frowned. “Do you know what I would have done back then, if I’d known how to stop the ritual?”

Martin realized Jon was reaching towards his temple again and he jumped, pulling violently away.

“ _Don’t!_ ” he shouted. Jon flinched, hand still halfway in the air. “Don’t- don’t show me. I don’t want to see it.”

Jon’s face softened. He lowered his hand and nodded. “I won’t.”

“Jon. . .you’re scaring me.” Martin said.

“. . . I know.” Jon’s voice was quiet. “I can see your fear. It’s rolling off you like ripples on a pond.” He tilted his head and leaned closer, something like wonder in his voice. “I wasn’t sure at first, but- -”

“ _Jon._ ”

Martin’s voice was firm with a chastising edge, and Jon seemed to snap out of it. He blinked sheepishly and looked down, folding his hands.  
  
“Sorry, sorry,” he said. “That was, ah . . . sorry.”

“I- I don’t know.” Martin took a long, shuddering breath. Everything was roiling inside him. “I don’t know what to think. . . .”

He found himself remembering the woman who’d seen Jon in the cafe. The shock and disbelief that he’d felt when she talked about what he’d done. . .and Martin’s first reaction had been denial, hadn’t it? Not denying the truth of her statement, just denying that it could really be _Jon._ It could be instinct or addiction or mind control. There could even be the devastating possibility that it just wasn’t him anymore, that he was lost and there was only the Archivist. But as frightening as that thought had been, Martin found himself wondering if there had been a reason he’d considered that possibility but not a third one. That it was still Jon, and that he’d been in control, and he’d still done it.

Martin wondered what he would have done if the end of the world hadn’t happened. If they’d somehow escaped that but not the Eye, and it was a question of Jon either feeding on peoples’ traumas or growing slowly weaker, willingly starving until there was nothing left. Would Martin have changed his mind then? Would he have seen that third possibility as more palatable?

He supposed if it had actually come to that, there would still have been the Institute’s gory retirement policy. But they were well past that point now.

Jon still loved him, and Martin knew he still loved Jon. If he needed any proof of that, the way he felt at the thought of losing him removed all uncertainty. But love didn’t always mean safety. Sometimes it meant the exact opposite, and there was no kindness in the Watcher’s gaze. If Jon had truly embraced the Eye and was content to let the world suffer so that he could watch, did love make a difference in the end? If Martin rejected Jon now, if he disappointed him, if his own love wasn’t enough, would Jon turn on him?

“Never.” Jon said adamantly, speaking as soon as the thought entered Martin’s mind. “Not if you broke my heart, or told me you never wanted to see me again, or tried to burn me alive. I promise.”

A laugh came out of Martin. It was probably the wrong reaction, but he couldn’t help it. The pleading intensity of Jon’s voice combined with him just _casually_ reading his mind. It was too much.

“I guess privacy’s not going to be a thing anymore, huh?” he asked.

Jon smiled weakly. “Is that a joke?”

“Not intentionally.”

Jon started to reach for his hand, then hesitated. “I understand if you’re scared. It’s . . . well, it’s probably only natural. But I promise you are safe with me. I’m not going to hurt you or . . . feed on you. I know this has changed me, and maybe not all those changes have been for the better. But it has also _clarified_ me. There are things I understand so much more now.”

Martin was quiet. Carefully, giving him time to pull away, Jon reached out to place a hand on his shoulder.

“I will never hurt you.” Jon said softly. “I will never reject you. I will never change my mind and stop loving you. You don’t ever again have to be afraid that I only stay with you because I don’t truly see your flaws. That I don’t know the real you. That you’ll one day show me something that’s too soft, too needy, too unlovely and my feelings will sour. Because I see _every_ part of you now. I know you totally and completely.”

Martin inhaled sharply, but those inhuman eyes held his gaze.

“I see every ugly, petty thought you’ve ever had.” Jon continued. “Every shame, every regret, every embarrassing secret. All the parts of yourself you wanted to hide because you were afraid they’d make others hate you, I know them all. And I only love you more. The joy of knowing you is the most wonderful thing, Martin.”

He smiled warmly, reaching to stroke Martin’s cheek. “Even now, I see a part of you still thinking I’m a monster who needs to be destroyed for the greater good, and I _love_ that you care so much about this world. At the same time I feel that resolve begin to crumble, and I love that you care so much about me.”

There was no denying the truth of it what Martin was hearing. Those words resonated with the sure and steady certainty that Jon had placed in his mind, and he felt weak.

He was telling the truth about something else, too. That resolve in Martin was slowly, quietly crumbling. As he thought that, Jon leaned forward and kissed him once, tenderly. Then rested his forehead against Martin’s and sighed with contentment.

“There’s something else I need you to know.” Jon said, quietly. “The way I am now, I know that. . .well, there’s a difference in power. And I want you to stay with me, more than anything. But I also won’t make you a prisoner.”

He pulled back to look at Martin. “If you didn’t want this, if you didn’t want me . . . it would break my heart, but I wouldn’t stop you from leaving. I would still keep you safe even if I had to do it from a distance, and nothing in this world would hurt you. You could go wherever you wished. You could find other people and try to help them, or ease their suffering. You could even try to stop the ritual.” Jon smiled at him fondly. “Raise up an army against me. I wouldn’t let you succeed, but I wouldn’t stop you from trying. If that was what you wanted.”

It didn’t escape Martin’s notice that Jon had begun speaking in the hypothetical, and he was fairly sure he knew why. If Jon saw as much as he said he did then he knew Martin’s decision had already been made. Probably just saying his piece now. He always did like to talk.

Jon’s smile became a little sheepish, and he shrugged. “I do mean it.”

“I know.” Martin said.

It was funny, he thought, how people changed. Sometimes it was dramatic and revelatory, sometimes it was a profound realization. And sometimes it was just a matter of quietly cutting off all excuses. Blocking off one path after another until the one you were always going to follow is, in fact, the only one left.

“If we find them. . .Melanie, and Basira, and the others,” Martin asked. “Can you protect them too?”

“Yes.” Jon said without hesitation. “And it won’t be long. I can find them much more easily now. Even Daisy . . . oh, you should see her now, Martin. She’s so beautiful,” he held his hand halfway to Martin’s face, eyes lively and glinting. “. . .Would you like to?”

“I’ll see her when we find her.” Martin said after a pause.

Jon nodded. He stood and offered Martin his hand. As he took it Martin saw tears, real tears, just brimming in his eyes. For a moment he wondered if it was a good sign that Jon was still human enough to cry. Then he wondered what made him think crying was a humans-only thing.

“Promise me one thing.” Martin said.

“Of course.”

“If you know what I’d have done if you’d. . .left me that choice. Put it in my hands whether or not to stop the ritual.” He paused. “Don’t ever tell me. Don’t ever show me. I don’t want to know.”

Jon looked at him, and Martin saw nothing but love in his eyes. He brought Martin’s hand to his face and kissed it.

“I never will,” he promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Squeeney made some real good good art from this chapter, just really swell stuff, gosh.](https://squeeneyart.tumblr.com/post/615952687892185088/what-do-you-mean-ieattaperecorders)


	3. Dream

The plastic knob on the kettle clicked off and a cloud of steam poured into the kitchen. Martin was rummaging through the cabinet, selecting a pair of mugs. He paused by the window. It had stopped raining recently and the warmth of the sun made steam rise off of London’s streets. Martin leaned out and breathed deeply, taking in the afternoon air.

_Petrichor_ , he thought, smiling.

Years ago he’d made an offhand comment about liking the smell of rain, and Jon had gone off for minutes about soil and scent-producing bacteria. At the time it had been . . . pretty annoying, actually? Because Martin had known what petrichor was. Couldn’t have told you where he’d heard it, the internet probably, but he’d _known_ it and he was a little irritated that Jon assumed he didn’t. Back then Martin had taken the presumption and Jon’s lecturing tone as more evidence that his new boss thought very little of him. But in hindsight it just filled Martin with affection. Recognizing Jon’s tendency to ramble on about something that he was excited to know without really noticing he was doing it.

Martin glanced at the dark figure in the corner of his kitchen, then went to pour the tea. He took his time, enjoying the mundane ritual of tea, strainer, and hot water. He filled his cup, added milk, then paused.

He sensed something, a feeling on the back of his neck, and when he turned the figure was standing behind him. Martin had neither seen nor heard it move. It stood perfectly still, and it was all eyes.

“What do you think, Jon?” he asked. “Sugar, or no sugar?”

Jon didn’t say anything. He never did in dreams. Martin wasn’t sure why, truth be told he hadn’t asked. There were so many things he’d come to file under “spooky Jon stuff” these days that he just accepted a lot of it. But Martin still liked talking to him. Felt sort of rude to just ignore him. Whatever Jon was doing - standing there, unmoving, unblinking, gaze fixed intently on him - it kept the nightmares away, and Martin was glad for that.

“Good point,” Martin said, stirring in the sugar. “May as well live a little, right?”

The tea smelled like tea. The countertop was solid, cool and felt just as it should. There were no uncanny dimensions to the kitchen, nothing out of place or subtly wrong about it. But he always knew that it wasn’t real. He couldn’t forget that the dream was a dream, or fully lose himself in it as he had in dreams before. That was one thing that Jon couldn’t give him, apparently.

Back in the world, Jon would be holding his sleeping body. Maybe resting Martin’s head in his lap, or curled around him in a mimicry of sleep himself. Part of him was there, part of him was here in the dream. And another part would be stretching itself outward, taking in the countless horrors that surrounded them in every direction.

After their time in the cabin Martin’s nesting instinct had been pretty well diminished, so he didn’t have much inclination to settle anyplace in particular. And Jon didn’t seem to care where they went as long as they kept moving, giving him new things to see. So he tried to find places that would be pleasant for Martin.

For the last. . .well, for a while, anyway, they’d been in a deep forest. The trees stretched higher than should be possible, some wider around than an office building. Shadows pooled deeply between them, and sometimes he saw massive, primordial shapes moving in the distance. But none of those creatures ever came near Martin. The colorful creeping vines that moved of their own volition never tried to wrap themselves around his limbs, nor did the shining clouds of iridescent insects ever cover him in a swarm.

Martin had to admit, when you had the privilege of safety from them, even nightmares could be beautiful. He’d walked with Jon down roads that had twisted into impossible knots without ever getting lost, without even getting dizzy. They’d traveled through a darkness so deep and silent that it swallowed the sound of Martin’s breathing, but he never lost sight of Jon and so it held no fear for him.

Once, he’d caught Jon looking curiously at a distant gray shore before glancing back at Martin, shaking his head and turning in the opposite direction. He hadn’t objected to avoiding that place, but later Martin found himself wondering what it would have felt like. To walk through the Lonely hand in hand with Jon, knowing he was loved and that the man who loved him was keeping the fog from reaching him. There was honestly some appeal to that.

Sometimes, very rarely, Martin heard screams in the distance. But Jon didn’t need to be close to get what he needed, and he generally made sure any sounds were too far away to notice.

Martin made a second cup of tea for Jon. He left it on the counter like a private joke, then went into the sitting room. The fluffy gray cat that had been napping in the corner lifted his head with interest when he entered and padded over, winding around Martin’s legs. He reached down to scratch behind his ears.

He had only met the Admiral once, the day they found Georgie and Melanie. Given how that meeting had gone, he knew he wasn’t likely to ever see the cat again. But Jon put him in all of Martin’s dreams since then. All things considered, Melanie and Georgie had been doing well. Which is to say they were exhausted, beaten down and traumatized, but still alive and with one another. The Entities didn’t have much interest in Georgie, but that didn’t mean she was safe. Not as long as Melanie was afraid of losing her.

Well . . . she was safe now. They both were. They had Jon’s protection even if they didn’t want it, and Martin felt some petty satisfaction at that thought.

The Admiral pulled away mid-pet, attention diverted by what was either a fly or a piece of lint floating in the air. He stalked towards it, head lowered, tail twitching in predatory anticipation.

Finding Daisy had been easy. Apparently Jon hadn’t even needed her exact location. just went to a place that he said “suited her now” and waited for her to find them. When she emerged all muscle and teeth and knives in the dark, Martin had nearly made the mistake of running. But Jon spoke in a reverberating voice and she was forced to answer back, settling down once he’d had her talking for a while. She _did_ maul him a bit afterwards -- apparently not happy about being compelled. But it healed quickly and Jon admitted he may have deserved it.

She started traveling with them after that. Hard to say how long they’d been together with the way time was anymore, but it was long enough that Martin had gotten used to having her around. He was surprised how much he actually liked Daisy? She was good to talk to once you got past certain quirks, and he even missed her when she went off on long hunts.

He knew Jon was glad to have her near. There was something complicated that ran between those two. They liked each other, and they took a quiet comfort in each other’s presence. But there was also an unspoken sadness whenever they looked at one another. Martin wasn’t sure he fully understood what passed between them in those moments, but their friendship seemed good for Jon. Had there ever been even a slight chance of Martin feeling jealous or cut out seeing a deep, mysterious, bond between them it simply wasn’t a concern anymore. He felt Jon’s love for him deep in his soul. It was a single point of terrible knowledge around which the world turned. Nothing could shake that from him.

And if Martin occasionally caught Daisy eyeing his legs like she was deciding which tendon to cut, well. He’d gotten used to creepy looks lately.

“There you are, Jon.”

Jon was barely a foot away, eyes locked on him as always. Martin smiled. He never saw Jon move in dreams, but he was never far. Totally still, expression unchanging, no more responsive than a piece of furniture. Martin considered the sweater on the back of a chair and thought about draping it over one of Jon’s arms like he was a coat rack. He’d done it once before. They both laughed about it after he woke up.

This time he didn’t. Instead he sat in a chair by the window, setting his tea down beside him. Noticing that there was now available lap space, the Admiral stopped toying with his prey and leaped onto Martin’s lap, purring noisily.

They’d seek out Basira next. He and Jon had actually found her once already, before Daisy joined them. She’d been wary of them both and wasn’t exactly warm, but had been glad to accept Jon’s offer of protection. There was apparently some concern about a promise she’d made, but Jon seemed confident she’d come around. She just needed a little more time, he assured Martin, then they would bring Daisy to her. And then there would be four of them.

Martin glanced up to find Jon had moved again, now watching from the corner. Martin nodded to him and picked up the book of poetry he’d been thumbing through, one hand still idly petting the Admiral. He went from page to page, reading a little then flipping ahead, back and forth in a relaxed half-focus. The end of one poem in particular caught his attention.

_ Oh stars and dreams and gentle night _

_ Oh night and stars return _

_ And hide me from the hostile light _

_ That does not warm, but burn _

_ That drains the blood of suffering men _

_ Drinks tears instead of dew _

_ Let me sleep through his blinding reign _

_ And only wake with you _

Martin closed the book and turned to the window, to a London that was long and forever gone. Afternoon light trailed over sidewalks, spilled around the people going by. Families were walking their dogs, kids returning from school. A group of teenagers passed beneath his window, laughing and teasing one another.

A knot of sorrow, sudden and heavy, pulled at the pit of Martin’s stomach and a sob rose out of him. He covered his mouth as a second one emerged. Alerted to the sudden change, the Admiral lifted his head. He sniffed at Martin’s face and kneaded his shirtfront with tender paws.

Martin breathed deeply, body shuddering. He stroked the cat that wasn’t real, and looked out at a beautiful world that would never exist again.

And everything was wrong. And everything was terrible. And Martin was loved.

And everything was going to be all right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poetry excerpt is from "Stars" by Emily Bronte.


End file.
